I Thought of You
by GreenAngel16
Summary: Absurd as the thought was, he reminded me of a stray cat. I had fed him once and after that he just kept coming back. (Full summary inside, M/M)
1. Prologue

I do not own Harry Potter. Such rights go to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

Hi there : ) This story will most likely only be 8 chapters or so. I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Severus Snape did not die in that dreary, broken shack. A year after the war Severus has been keeping up a lonely residence in his home down Spinner's End. One day he is surprised to have a visitor, 18 year old Harry Potter. Severus is quick to notice that the boy has had a hard time moving forward with his life. It is through a borrowed heavy novel and many unexpected visits throughout the year, that he is forced to understand Potter and just how fractured the boy's life has become.

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**I Thought of You**

**By: GreenAngel16**

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**Prologue**

"_Once upon a time I could take anything, anything. Always stepped in time, regardless of the beat I moved my feet, I carried weight. What I could not do, I faked. And I dug seeking treasure just to wake up in an early grave. So I stopped right there and said 'Go on alone, 'cause I won't follow. This isn't giving up, no, this is letting go.'" _

-This is Letting Go (**Rise Against**-Endgame)

I'm kneeling by your fallen self, my knees digging into the hard wood, the muscle in my legs feeling like vapor and it takes a moment to see you, to see your torn body, your blood choking out, all over.

The world has gone silent, my breath lost. It's night, a ghostly chill, but it's as if the sun is bending over my back. Time is standing still, slanted and ashamed. I don't want to be here, existing, living in these fading, desperate seconds. The air was dirty, too solid to take into my lungs, making me feel so sick, my stomach squeezed into a marble, the bile bubbling and burning. My veins felt packed with ice, sliced up in my body, my muscles scorched and beaten and exhausted.

I should have been done in this moment, I should have given up, laid somewhere in the wet grass to stare up at the stars while the castle burned and people cried and heroes were doing nothing but dying.

But I could not run, I could not disappear because you would have been alone otherwise, died alone in the dark, the splintered wood and shuddering walls for company, the wet planks seeping with your blood so red, it was _so, so_ red and your face looks so white, as white as snow through my bleary eyes.

I can't find your eyes.

I didn't want this, ever, I would never want this for you and I don't know how to tell you, I've forgotten how to speak, the words keep slipping away, burrowing themselves like mice, my brain so dumb and fevered as if you here with me were a blazoned mirage and I'm shaking, my bones feel like they're rattling, I'm shaking to the very core with fear, with anger, with regret, with a _loneliness _I never knew and I thought I knew them all.

It can't be like this, ending like this, I want to stop it, I want the day to turn inside itself, I want the moon to stop making that cross of light over your face, I want your wounds to sew themselves up, for your body to stop bleeding out but my hand can't hold it in and it feels like fire underneath my fingers, your skin and your blood and your life twining through the gaps and I hate it, I hate your pain and the poison stretching through your body.

I think you deserve better than this but I don't know if that's right but I think it and I believe it.

I can't tell you how sorry I am and I don't know what I have to be sorry for but in this moment, here, where I can feel the seconds crashing down heavy onto the grimy floor, one after the other, pounding my chest, here I have never felt this lost before and I feel like I'm everywhere in this room with you, fragmented like scattered glass, my heart too big within my chest, my ribs bowing because of the weight.

You can't die here, in this broken, desolate, hideous place but I can't save you and I want to put you somewhere else, in a bed of flowers and in warmth with your hands folded and be the one to tell you things you wanted to hear and I wish you weren't afraid, I'm begging for it.

I can only wait.

But I don't want to keep going, how can I take even one more step? After all of this?

Your hand reaches somehow, the energy of it enough to grab my collar, struggling to hold it and the weight of it crushes my soul and I'm crying because there's this sorrow breaking in, tethering my bones and stabbing my consciousness.

What image is left of you and me? We're standing apart, in weeds and it's sundown, it's always sundown, and you always look at me coldly but I can only stare at your hands and we're not close, never because we're enemies in the wilderness.

Think of me. Think of me.

It isn't fair that I can't feel anything else but this but I hear your gasping breaths, your last breaths, and I want to live inside every one of them.

You can't breathe anymore and neither can I. My vision is swimming with tears and I'm still trying to find your eyes but your hand falls, collapsing onto mine and I'm sorry it's cold, I'm so sorry it's cold.

There was something inside of me, pain, gouging pain ripping me apart, tearing and scraping and I'm nothing here, not human, I don't want to be human. I'm the wind, the draft that makes the wood creak, the hollowness you feel now in your chest, the blood spilling from your mouth, the sparks of nerves in your limbs, I am the fear in your stuttering heart, the darkness etching over your sight.

What was I to you? All this time what was I to you? Please, tell me. Tell me you found some worth in me. Tell me there were times where I didn't disappoint you. Tell me your life hasn't always been miserable.

I know I never measured up.

We are here, in the dust and the willowed shadows and the leaking night and the silence and my hand in yours looks too far away but I can feel your skin, the heat of your palm nestled their like a sleeping bird, the pulse beating slowly, much too slowly.

And I want something that I can't name but I want it from you so badly and its torture and I can't do anything for you.

The blood has covered your white collar, stiff and my vision holds onto it. My hand is stained, clutching at your chest.

Say something, please, _please_.

I want to do something for you, something in the end at least, at last.

"Look…at…me…"

The words float up from your shivering crimson lips, strangled and low.

I do, for you, I oblige and I hold tighter to your hand and my eyes find yours and I steady my sight and meet those pools of ink, those bottomless black eyes looking at me, enduring and weak and I wonder who you see, I wonder who you wish were here instead of me, with you because you're dying, god, you're dying but you're looking into my eyes and I don't know how to compose myself, I don't know how to look for you but my tears are falling and the life beside me is shedding away and the moon is streaming over us and your eyes are stolen away from mine, they lose focus, the lights blinking out, dimming and it's over now and I still don't know how to breathe.

And it's not fair because you're gone, you've left, but I'm still here, I'm still left with me.

And something happens here that stays with me, follows me and it takes a while before I let go of your lifeless hand, it takes a while before I stand up, it takes a long while before the world comes back to me again.

You were the man I never knew. You were the man I never knew.

I'm sorry.

I didn't know it at the time, only after, that the pain I felt was the pain that comes from a broken heart.

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That was the prologue. The rest of the chapters will be from Snape's POV only. I'm pretty excited to write this story and did this today (06/10/13) to get my mind back to writing but I am working on the next chapters for my other two stories and I hope to have them up in a few days.

I hope you look forward to more, thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 1: Disconnected

I do not own Harry Potter. Such rights go to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

Remember, all of these chapters will be in Snape's POV.

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**Chapter 1: Disconnected **

_"So I tell myself, tell myself; it's wrong. There's a point we pass from which we can't return. I felt the cold rain of the coming storm."_

-The Good Left Undone (**Rise Against**-The Sufferer & the Witness)

A man can suffer in many different ways. He can suffer from greed, from loneliness, from self-loathing, from confidence, from pity, from sorrow, from fear and from love and we all know that suffering is painful, an endless cycle of torment and will. And I think I had come to believe that a way a man survives, how he lives through the suffering, it can mean everything in the end.

Suffering and surviving, they go hand in hand, partners for eternity.

I did suffer for the longest time and the irony of it all came in two parts: that I wasn't suffering when I was dying in that shack and that I survived even though I had no desire to live.

I cannot tell you how I lived.

Unfortunately, even in the wizarding world, the term "miracle" subsists and unfortunately for me, a miracle, for whatever randomization that miracles float about, was reserved for me. I suppose, like muggles say, it just wasn't my time and I can't help but regret that.

The amount of blood that I had lost and Nagini's venom tracing through my veins apparently wasn't enough to cut my life and instead of an untimely end (though very much timely for me) I was found by Kingsley and many others for they had gone to retrieve my believed to be dead body only to find out that I was in fact still breathing.

There isn't much to explain after that; I healed, I returned to my home down Spinner's End, I didn't care to think that Harry Potter had been the one to clear my name of all charges against it, I didn't care to return to my teaching post as the Defense nor Potions professor even if Headmaster McGonagall kindly offered to reinstate me; I shut myself out from the world, it was the way I chose to live after the war and for me, in a sense, it was the only choice I could grant myself.

You could question that if I really did not desire to live any further as I had fulfilled my duties to the late Albus Dumbledore then why not just end it straight away and move on.

I honestly do not have an answer to that hypothetical question because I have asked it of myself more than once and yet I am here, still breathing.

Could I say it was suffering, what I was doing all this time after? I have no idea. I was just living, a routine played out day after day in the quiet of my home, my voice hardly heard in the emptiness of dark rooms where lights remained off for most of the day, in the motionless sunlight that poured through the white curtains on aged wooden floors that would creak now and then due to my footsteps, I would hear the tuneful mundane sounds of crickets down by the hushed river, of school children playing outside on the rough cobblestone streets, cars rolling by, neighbors shouting, the seasons drifting along with the passage of time. It had been only a year however and yet it might have felt like decades to me, to my mind and how silent it was for such long hours sitting by the fireplace or in the kitchen watching birds perch on the lone tree of my backyard.

I had no purpose. There was nowhere for me to be. I was alive, my heart beating in that rhythmic pace so calmly. There were no worries, the air was clear and the loss of that weighted stress made my body feel as young as ever. I could not explain how tedious things could feel, how simple and easy and unfulfilling and yet there was peace with me now, a peace I had never felt in my life before.

I was no longer a part of that war effort, no longer a spy, no longer a servant of the Dark Lord. I was just me, Severus Snape, 39 years old, still breathing.

But what was different was that I was dissatisfied with how I looked. I was quite thin, a man my height should have weighed more, had more muscle definition, stood up straighter, practiced better hygiene, kept that scowl off my face or wrinkles would surely be expected in the near future. So, I did more for myself than I had in many years. I paid attention to myself.

I bought myself new clothes, I washed my hair, I fixed my teeth, I ate better and in time I was no longer scrawny and sallow skinned but pale and slender and fitter and all of that, all of these changes, made me feel less invisible to myself. I don't know why I cared but I did and I kept breathing.

I was alone and that to me was perfect enough though I still could not comprehend why I was alive, why I was here.

But I was breathing, I was alive, I was doing things however basic and habitual and it was ridiculous. I was already playing that part of an old retired man who sits by the autumn sea and waits and waits in that anguished duration of time contemplating all of life's secrets.

I did not think about secrets however, I didn't think at all really.

Did I want something? Did I need anything? Did I deserve better?

Did it matter?

I was just a man now.

But I would be lying if I told you I didn't desire company. That I didn't desire conversation. I had time for things now and I had questions swimming in my head that would exist in my mind, brushing against my skull, pestering me to stay awake at night when all I asked for was sleep.

Do you think the things I did were brave? Do you think they were honorable? Did you hate me? Did you always hate me? Was I ugly all that time? Did anyone ever think of me? Did you think I was noble? Do you know what I was afraid of? Did I do all the right things for all the wrong reasons? Did you trust me? Did you want to know me?

I didn't have any problems. I did not have nightmares or anxiety or post traumatic stress or anything remotely akin to that. I was, by all means, just normal, just me without all the mystery and risks and bitterness and self-pity and coldness and the monster called grief seemed to have left without leaving a note.

And even guilt had taken its departure as well.

There was nothing but a clock in my bedroom and one in the sitting room and one in the kitchen and I hardly paid attention to them. I stayed up late for no reason other than to just feel the exhaustion, I made shopping trips as quick as they could be, I ate alone, I did not travel, I slept in for no reason other than to just feel groggy in the afternoon.

I wished I could have nightmares for no reason other than to feel that fear when you wake from them, no reason but for the feeble desire to at least dream something because I didn't dream at all.

I knew everything that had happened in the final battle, I knew the death toll and the names of those who were killed, I knew how the Dark Lord's body purely disintegrated and the putrid ashes were taken by the dawn's wind. I found out why the Elder Wand did not work for the Dark Lord, how Potter had come to be its true master and how Potter, alone, had gone into the Forbidden Forest ready to die at the hands of the Dark Lord only to survive once again by a thread and slice the final thread that secured the Dark Lord to the living world.

It was all very dramatic I assume from what Minerva told me at my bedside though I honestly did not wish to listen to the tale. I wasn't interested in anything when I woke up.

And now, in my year of freedom I could call it, there are nights where I step out into the yard where nothing grows and where nothing ever grew and there are stars in the clean midnight sky and I have all the knowledge I have gained since I was born and I know none of it made any difference and I have to admit, in the standstill of a moment where the scent of the dust and dirt and dead grass and in the shadows of the bare branches of the one lonely tree that creep out from the light of the moon and the weak glow of the small lamp on the wall, I think of whatever possible reason that I did not die that day, that day that had seemed endless and lit up by fire and the night's dew was so pungent in the air where I could hear far off screams of agony and rage and love.

I lean against the overhang post and stare blankly at my own shadow stretched on the ground and I wonder if this night I'll read a book or drink scotch or write letters to no one.

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May 2nd, 1999 Sunday

Today was an anniversary but the term to me seemed tasteless. Anniversaries, to me, were things you celebrated and I suppose the first anniversary of the Second Wizarding War would be something to celebrate considering what took place however I would assume the loss that many had felt that day was still raw on people's chests. I did not want to go out today because even though my name was cleared there were those who disliked seeing my face and would often make that point known to my face.

I didn't blame them nor did I care for my emotions, as they had always been, were quite useless to me. It was almost ten in the morning and I had made myself breakfast, eggs, some fruit, ham and orange juice. I sat at the small table in the kitchen reading the _Sunday Prophet _though not entirely paying attention to its drab articles. I read a miniscule report that a gang of dark wizard supporters had been rounded up by Aurors last night and a certain Auror, whose name often popped up in every _Daily Prophet _was mentioned a handful of times.

Harry Potter, the Auror; still playing the hero, still being reckless, still famous or rather infamous would be more proper. He was everywhere it seemed; well, everywhere in the wizarding world. For whatever reason I had been subscribed to _Witch Weekly _and with every edition that was owled to me it was guaranteed that Potter's face was somewhere in the magazine. In fact, there was a copy on the table right now with the boy, dressed smartly in a muggle tux, plastered on the front cover.

I ignored the image of course and those ever-changing green eyes.

And then something that never happened now happened. There was a knock on my door. The sound of it was so foreign to me that I didn't notice it the first time. The second time, when I did hear it, the noise of the heavy metal ring striking the thick wooden front door caused my heart to take a leap in my chest and my right hand almost knocked over the empty glass next to it.

I did not feel any caution at all, not any sort of fear or concern. I was just somewhat annoyed to have my quiet Sunday morning bothered by whoever was my visitor. I waited long enough to pretend I wasn't home but the knock came again, harder this time, six strikes of the handle and I suddenly hated the visitor's insistence to see me.

I stood finally and as I made my way to the entry hall the unknown visitor knocked _again._ By now the sound to me was horrid and brutalized my ears more so than a shrieking banshee. I hurried my strides and practically yanked the door open.

"Yes?" and the loud tone of my voice came as a surprise to me.

I saw the street and the dark brick row houses across it and two little girls in daisy yellow dresses that were skipping rope on the sidewalk and I saw him. He was easily recognizable.

Harry Potter was on my doorstep.

If I could dream I would have thought this to be one, something asinine brought on by a night of too much whisky but I could not dream and so he was real and he was on my doorstep and as I discovered he still had not grown since his fifth year at Hogwarts.

I didn't realize everything in that moment, only after when I had time to think and mull over the hour or so that followed but I can break it down now.

I knew he was 18, his dark brown hair was somewhat tousled but fairly short, his bangs covering his forehead and of course the lightning bolt scar. He was still skinny with the same chalky complexion and the only changes I could make out were that his jaw and cheek bones were more pronounced and he wasn't wearing his iconic round eyeglasses.

The sun, for whatever reason, was brilliant out in the sky which was odd given the month but it made the color of his eyes a harlequin green. They were bright, as always.

I will tell you now so you won't waste time guessing: _No_, I did not see her in him; they were not her eyes this time, like the many times before where I would catch a glimpse, hundreds of them really, since I woke up in St Mungo's hospital. I did not see Lily Evans. He was Potter, Mr. Potter, a man now even though his stature and young big eyes betrayed that instantly but he was a man.

And I will mention this because I have to. I didn't feel anything when I saw him here with me, in the flesh, nothing at all; no gouging bitterness, no overbearing hatred and nothing like comradeship or understanding or closure, not anything, I was disconnected from it all, from all those years I had tormented him; it had left with everything else.

But I did think of something; quick pictures of my memory flashed like playing cards in my head, of Potter following my doe patronus through the woods with that gravity of blind hope, of him standing in the snow, eyes searching every which way in the dusk and walking on to the frozen lake alone and I could hear his shuddered breaths for that quiet that surrounded him, us, was vast, the sort that callused over my skin and entered me and didn't let me move.

And here, in this meeting moment that I can play back over and over in my memory and it would remain the same each time, here, the first knock unheard, the second startling my very bones, my knuckles brushing against the cool empty glass cup that settled on the edge of the table and stopped, the curtains drawn in the kitchen, the aroma of basil that I used with the eggs still strong in the air, my beating heart sounding like a boom in my ears as my blood rushed past them, waiting in the lean stretch of silence that followed and more insistent knocking, loud, bang, bang, bang, and if I had waited again instead, if I had just let that sound go on until he began to feel like an idiot for hanging around on his old teacher's doorstep, until I began to feel transparent in my own home, if that had happened instead, would he have ever come again?

And, like the look I saw in the forest and the snow and the hush of winter, his staring eyes were the exact same and they found my bothered gaze.

He wore odd brown shoes, the material I could guess was suede, dark blue jeans and an off white cotton shirt under a dark russet leather jacket. His hands were nervous at his sides as if he didn't know what to with them. He took a very short step back and his mouth opened and remained open but no words made it out.

"Mr. Potter," I decided to say because I could not stand the boy's gawking.

"Ah…Sn…Professor Snape," Potter stuttered, his eyes widening. "Good morning, Sir."

His eyes shifted all over my features, he was tense and if I wasn't imagining it, he was shivering.

"And what may I ask brings you to my home on this particular Sunday morning Mr. Potter?" I said and I had a feeling if I hadn't said anything we'd be staring at each other forever.

"Oh…well um…I…I was in the neighborhood…Well I mean…I planned to come here…a while ago well, not too long ago, just sort of something I've been meaning to do…just to…you know, just visit…I mean I haven't seen, we haven't seen each other, not that we need to or anything, I wouldn't bother you just for no reason, obviously, I was just, it's coincidence really, I didn't even know you'd still be living here to be honest, I just thought, hey, why not you know?"

Entirely grateful that he had stopped rambling with what just happened to be sporadic words flung off the roller coaster that seemed to be Potter's train of thought at the moment I didn't know how to answer him. There were patches of color in his cheeks and I took the time to notice the dark shadows underneath Potter's eyes.

"And?" I simply responded.

"And what?" Potter said as if he were the clueless one.

I didn't want this, I didn't want any of this whatever it was to begin at all, I didn't want to see him or wonder what he was doing with his life and have him question me about mine and how I have just been wallowing in a maddening peace for over 11 months, I didn't want to have anything to do with him.

But I could not turn him away, I could not slam the door in his face, be cruel and tell him to leave me alone and I don't know why I couldn't. Perhaps it was just the way the sun lit him up, that glow tangled in his hair, fallen over half of his face, draped over his right shoulder, accentuating the material of his jacket, cradling his cheek with a grace that could never look right on me and it didn't matter that I liked being alone and it didn't matter that in truth and no matter how much I used to insist it Potter never ruined anything in my life…

"_Why _are you here?" I emphasized the question more than I meant to.

Potter's eyes wandered about, looking at me all over, up and down and around at my doorstep, never once meeting my eyes.

"May I come in?" the boy said at last, fingers of both his hands grabbing at each other and squeezing, a thumb nail stabbing a knuckle, his jaw stressed, his brow slightly furrowed as if in deep worry.

And after those words everything felt like an out of body experience. My skin felt numb, my limbs somehow heavy, my thoughts drained and disturbed by Potter's uninvited, _unannounced _self. It wasn't fear I was feeling just because I wasn't used to company but because out of everyone it could have been it had been him.

I stepped aside and the way forward into the entry hall was no longer blocked and Potter walked quickly in though his steps were unsure. I glared at his back, at his shoulders until Potter turned around to face me and I shut the door with more force than I intended. The window shook and the hall was splashed with trembling diamonds of iridescent light and the sunray patterns cast every which way on Potter's body.

Potter was looking at me hesitantly. He had never been in my home before and the sudden muffled sound of the outside and the two of us standing before one another made my lungs feel tight.

"I…I'm sorry if I was interrupting something, Professor," Potter forced out.

His voice was the same, boyish and high pitched when he was anxious but those words were soft, light and asking me again if he could actually come in.

"The sitting room is just ahead," I spoke in a monotone way.

Potter hesitated and looked down at his feet. He _was_ shivering. He turned and I watched him walk stiffly, hands stuck at his sides, shoulders stressed, strides short, triangles of light skipping along his back. I moved forward and followed him, followed his scent of the May day and something like fresh soap and oddly enough I smelt oranges as well.

My house is fairly plain, cherry wood floors, beige walls in the front room, white in the kitchen and the sitting room is quite spacious, lined with various bookshelves and a large fireplace, furnished with a black coffee table, a couch, and two wingback chairs. Throughout the year I had cleaned it up, got rid of the caked dust and dirt, boxed away useless items and where there was once clutter there was emptiness and bare corners. When I entered the sitting room I found Potter standing by the fireplace and looking at a candleholder and a few knick-knacks I had randomly placed on the mantel but he still kept his nervous hands at his side.

Potter's head turned and he didn't stare directly at me but probably somewhere above my left shoulder.

"It's…roomy," Potter said and his eyes rushed to the ceiling and then back at the space above my shoulder.

"It's quiet too," Potter remarked but his voice shook just slightly at the end.

It wasn't nearly cold in the house and there was no wind today and I was clothed minimally in a navy blue dress shirt and black slacks so it was unusual that Potter would be feeling chilled no matter how skinny he was.

"Tea?" I suggested with reluctance as an attempt to get things moving along.

"I—I wouldn't want to trouble you," Potter stammered.

This was beginning to grow exhausting. Why was Potter here? The answer was actually beginning to concern me more so than ever now. This whole scene was ludicrous; Potter standing by my fireplace awkwardly and me standing in the doorway just as awkwardly.

"But…if you don't mind…" he managed at last.

I let the breath I had been holding go and crossed the sitting room into the kitchen. I found the kettle and picked, without looking, a box of tea. I didn't care to use my wand because I had no desire to go back into that room again with him. I merely leaned against the counter as the water boiled and the two china white tea cups waited on the silver tray on the table. The sight of the two cups was bizarre to me because frankly I've never set out two cups before. My fingers tapped on the counter all the way up till the kettle steamed and began to whistle and I was beginning to think of Potter as being one of those solicitors that often came around the area and badgered people about all sorts of business.

After serving the tea I listened before entering the sitting room again and heard nothing. Potter was near a bookshelf this time and searching through the number of titles. I set the tea down on the coffee table and he turned around again.

"You can sit down," I said indistinctly as Potter eyed the cups of tea.

"Oh…sure," Potter said and gave a jerked nod and promptly rounded the couch and sat down in the middle.

I gradually sat down in the wingback chair to his right and almost immediately did I feel the tension between us envelop my senses and I could clearly understand that the reason for Potter's visit wasn't going to make itself known any time soon. I was growing impatient, a way I hadn't felt in quite some time; I was feeling a lot of things I hadn't felt in quite some time; irritable, impatient, _awkward_. What did he want that had to deal with me? Why was I growing so inquisitive?

"Your glasses," I said out of an impulse that flew by my self-control. I didn't want to talk to him, _I didn't_ but I could feel my eyes cutting my gaze upon him.

"What?" Potter responded almost hastily as if he had been lost somewhere else in his mind, not paying attention to his surroundings or rather doing his best not to pay attention. But his eyes lifted from the tea and fell somewhere below my neckline. His lack of eye contact was beginning to agitate me.

"You're not wearing glasses," I replied frankly.

"Oh…yeah…" he said and his right hand raised itself unconsciously, fingertips touching very lightly just above his eyebrow. "They fixed my eyesight…with being an Auror and all…they said they'd get in the way, that I couldn't afford that…" Potter's hand fell back down to his knee where his thumb brushed the denim material over and over, eyes squinting against nothing.

I wouldn't let the silence overcome us again.

"You didn't wish to return for your seventh year?" I spoke the question very easily, efficiently as if it were just a reason to make conversation. My shoulders had pinpricks in them; I didn't know how to sit in the chair.

"Ah…no, not really…I didn't see the point in it," Potter answered and his eyes were cast upon the ceiling and plummeted to his lap and I saw his chest rise for the silent deep breath he took. "I just wanted to…get on, you know? Just…live on my own…" His voice fell with every word until the last was a whisper and those shadowed green eyes were back to staring at the tea.

"Your enthusiasm for class was always quite minimal," the words, the very syllables were like phantoms living in my head. "Never the diligent one." I picked up a cup, I had to or I might as well as told him to leave right in that instant. I brought it to my lips though only a trickle managed to greet my tongue and burned that spot.

Potter's eyes were on me now and I couldn't even begin to tell you how lost they looked; he was completely misplaced in what to say back to me, as if he only had a brick to add to the neatly piled stones I had placed down. And I could see then that with those words, so familiar but without the latched on coldness to them, or it was the plain fact that I wasn't being cold at all, with those words I had opened up a jar of vast opportunities for Potter, that much too many responses were whisking by his perception that it was overwhelming him, that there were so many words desperate for freedom that if he did try to hold on to a few of them surely all of them would come running out of his mouth and that realization simply terrified me.

I put the cup down and the gentle clink was enough to drive Potter's eyes right to it, away from my body, my _presence_ and I was fully agitated now because if he didn't want to be around me then why did he come to my home? Why did he rap the door so determinedly to get my answer?

A year it had only been, one bloody _year_ and Potter was acting like we'd been strangers for 20.

"Did…did you get my package?" Potter's tone was so low that even in my soundless home I had to strain my ears to hear it.

"I did," I answered. He was referring to the parcel that, only about two months after the war, he had sent me and all it had contained was the flask of my memories that I had given to him that night where I was supposed to have died.

Potter let himself nod and his shoes shifted on the floor and he finally reached for his own tea cup with two slightly quivering hands and he took a drink and brought the cup away, staring at the golden liquid.

"It's good…" Again the words were hushed.

I didn't know what was wrong but of course I could assume that, in spite of the rest of the wizarding world, Potter wasn't so quick to land on his feet after the Dark Lord's end. I didn't know if I cared in this moment; I had never really cared for his emotions, the effect of the sort of life he had lived, what it had done to him and I didn't want to question it, to see that behind all those big smiles on cover pages and in articles where they always dressed him up or down, that behind the legend, the renowned name, was an unstable coming of age boy who was wandering about the background of things as if to get in step with the life he was expected to live now.

No, I wouldn't picture it because Potter was always like this, constantly fumbling about and clumsy and discomfited and rambling; it's what had attracted everyone's stare the most when his voice broke.

But what did Potter want from me? When had I ever been of any importance to him besides when I absolutely needed to be? When had he ever listened to me? He had been the sort to constantly follow his own feet and thoughts and nothing more.

"I can't really notice it," Potter said and his words hauled my concentration back onto him.

"What?" I said as if flicking some insect out of the air.

"The scar…on…on…your neck," he struggled with the words as if he was just noticing he had said them and the heat in his skin rose. He set the cup down and his clink had been much noisier.

So rapidly did the images and sounds race through my mind; Potter's dirtied, tear stained face wavering in my blurred vision, his hand pressing over my neck wound as if it could stop the blood flow, the trembling in his young body so fierce, my shallow, rasping breaths and his shuddering ones and the smell of dust and earth and molded wood and moonlight and that point in the world where not one of us was breathing at all, where the darkness was crumbling in, where I could taste the boy's fear and hear his rattling heart, where I could have felt pity…

The scar was very thin and pale, a crescent line and invisible without enough light.

"Yes…" I muttered.

These were the points I did not wish to cross with him and I refused to get closer.

"So Mr. Potter, what is the reason for your visit?" I asked precisely.

And my question swept away any openness that Potter might have been feeling with the two of us; gathered it up and tossed it out.

"Oh…um…" Potter's eyes flicked back and forth between my hands and his own that were holding his knees. "You…you have a lot of books…"

"I do," I responded, my impatience stretching thin.

"I mean, I just…I was just wondering…because you read a lot…and have a lot of books…" he went on and I felt like hitting him, "may I…possibly…borrow a book, Sir?"

A book? Potter came here to borrow a book from me, out of all the places in the world that offered books, he chose here to get one?

"Is it a particular book you're in need of?" I tried him but I already knew the answer and I wanted to grab him by the scruff of the neck and show him the front door again.

"N…no, not a particular one…just…not like a textbook, not a school book, like..." Potter was really trying to concentrate on his words, "like a story, you know, a story." And his eyes jumped up to stare at my nose and they looked as if I could concur with his reply.

"A story?" I repeated as my skull filled with a thick haze because of Potter's absurdity.

There had to be more to this, there really had but I must have been too astounded at how uncanny this all was.

"Yes, Sir," Potter said.

And there was that look again, that face I had seen in the forest and the snow and the frosted quiet and Potter had a bit of facial hair then but here he was clean shaven, here he was 18 nearing 19, here the war was over and there was sunlight blaring and it was warm out but Potter was shivering and he looked as if he had spent this year just as alone as I had been and his hands were nervous and clueless and he didn't quite look like a man though he was one and here I thought I was losing my mind because I was suddenly the one with questions:

Where do live now? How is it being an Auror? What are you afraid of now that he's finished? What do you feel about today? Do you get tons of mail? Don't you feel like an idiot during those photo shoots? Why are you wearing those shoes? Don't you eat? Do you live alone or is there someone with you? Why can't you look me in the eyes? Is it because of me that you're shivering? Do I make your skin crawl? Then why the fuck would you come here for a damn book you brainless insufferable boy? Why couldn't you have just left me be? How are you? No, really, how are you? I want to know…

"Professor?"

"All of the ones in here aren't story books…" I answered somehow. "There's a closet just before the stairs, there should be a few boxes with some novels, classics mostly, fiction…"

"The door by the stairs?" Potter said quickly.

"Yes, right by them…" I replied and out of the corner of my eye I saw him stand and head out in the hallway and I listened to his unsure footsteps and I listened to the door creak as it was opened.

I didn't know what we were supposed to do, I didn't want his company, I didn't want to know him, I didn't need that, neither of us did, it was inane and foolish and uncomfortable and useless. Why was he here? We didn't need any of this; _I _didn't need this _inconvenience, _the pest that Potter had constantly been to me. What was it then? What was the point? Why couldn't I react in the way I should have?

Why did I feel so exhausted?

The noisy crash that filled the house startled me and made my heart skip. It had come from the storage closet and in a flash I was out in the hall and yanking the door open to see what had happened. There was a pile of things, books mostly, on the floor and a cloud of dust had risen up in the cramped space of the room. Under the pile I could make out Potter's legs and his hands reaching out of the books and knickknacks and then scrambling and fighting off the many hardbacks to sit up.

Potter coughed and his bright green eyes, wide with bewilderment, at last met my eyes.

"The shelves broke!" he let out. "I'm sorry Sir! I was just trying to get one of the boxes on top and I grabbed it and then, then it just all came down!" I watched as his eyes raced over the mess that littered the floor and the broken shelves still attached to the wall, the old wood that had given in. Potter coughed some more and I stared at the bits of dust that had gotten on his hair and that smudged his face.

"I can fix it," Potter said with such self-assurance and I didn't know why my body felt so light.

"Are you hurt at all?" I found myself asking.

"No…I don't think so," Potter replied. "But I am really sorry…I'll put everything back the way it was!" Potter got one of his legs out of the pile with effort. He looked around once more and his eyes fell on a certain book. Potter stopped his attempts to get free from the mound and picked up the heavy novel with its blue cover and leaf gold title.

_In the Shadows of the Stars _

I recognized it at once and I held my breath. Without thinking I leaned down and swiped it out of Potter's hand.

"Sir?"

"Choose something else," I said and I turned and walked down the hall.

"But…Sir!?" Potter called in confusion and I heard him fumble to get out of the mess in the closet. "What's wrong with that one!?"

I walked into the sitting room and it was out of impulse that my hands opened the old book with its powder blue hardback and fragile spine and flipped it to almost the last page and tore it out swiftly and jammed the page into my pocket and when I turned around, the book closed in my hands, Potter was behind me, face flushed and out of breath and dusty with his eyes questioning me greatly.

"The title seemed interesting," Potter said with disappointment.

"Is this the one you want then?" I replied, trying to keep my composure.

"Have you read it?" Potter said. "Is it good?"

"I have," I said. "It's…" Those green eyes were full of curiosity, no longer nervous, no longer timid, and they were looking right up at me, "…admirable."

"I've never heard of it before, is it—"

"It's a muggle book," I interjected.

"What's it about?" Potter asked.

"Do you want this one or not, Mr. Potter?" I said strictly.

Potter waited and his inquiring eyes were searching through mine for something he would never get and I could have easily have done it right here, I could have delved into his thoughts and I could have found everything I didn't want to know but needed to know…

He nodded and I handed the book to him.

"I'll fix the shelves," Potter said after a moment of staring down at the novel.

"Leave them," I said. "I'll do it myself."

Potter didn't persist.

"Was that all you came here for, Mr. Potter?"

"Yeah…yes, Sir," Potter said.

"Well…I do have some things to get done today," I lied.

"Oh…of course you do," Potter said and nodded. "I'll just…go then."

I don't know why I walked him to the door and spent the whole time staring at his hands, I don't know why I opened the door for him and the sun clung to Potter's body as if it missed him. I felt very numb.

"Professor," Potter said quickly as he was about to turn and walk out the door.

"I'm not your professor anymore, Mr. Potter," I responded indolently.

"Oh…right…well, I just…thank you for the book…Sir," he said with confirmation. "I won't ruin it or anything so don't worry about that…"

It was such a dim thing for a wizard to say and yet I couldn't think here.

"Good day, Mr. Potter," the words drifted away from me.

Potter walked out the door but no sooner did he come right back in.

"It…it was nice seeing you," Potter let out.

I was silent.

"Bye then," he said and he went out onto the doorstep and I could only stand there and watch him walk onto the sidewalk. The two girls in their dresses were gone and a car was parking and the sun was blinding and Potter's green eyes were loud with that light and they found mine again and I didn't know this boy at all…

"It's going to rain I think," he said as he stood on the pavement and all its cracks. He looked up at the sky. "It feels like rain."

He didn't look at me before walking down the street. I closed my door and the entry hall was dark but for the rays of diamond light etching through the window and all I knew was that Potter had come here today, on an anniversary, he had been on my doorstep, he had been shivering in sunlight, he had tiptoed around me as if I were some sort of untamed animal, he had borrowed a book I hadn't read in years, had let his tea get cold, had stolen my mindless peace and I was here thinking of it all and I was still breathing and despite wondering how it could possibly rain on such a clear day three hours later gray clouds had rolled in and it poured and I watched the rain drops sob down onto the windowpane and listened to the thunder roar as I drank scotch in the kitchen until it was late and that was the night I started dreaming again.

_"All because of you, I haven't slept in so long. When I do I dream of drowning in the ocean, longing for the shore where I can lay my head down. I'll follow your voice; all you have to do is shout it out."_

-The Good Left Undone (**Rise Against**-The Sufferer & the Witness)

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And that's Chapter 1. Please tell me what you think. The next chapter will be much longer but I wanted to keep the first visit short and simple. Also, the title of the book is something I made up and if it resembles any title in any way it has nothing to do with it.

I had always thought that Snape would be like this if he had survived the war, a recluse and not troubled at all by everything he'd been through, I don't know why, I just thought Snape would be stuck with that calm.

I apologize for any errors I may have missed.

I hope everyone is doing well.


	3. Chapter 2: Spectrum

I do not own Harry Potter. Such rights go to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

A/N: Hi there! I have done more than half of the outline for this story and I just wanted to let the readers know it most likely will be about 12 chapters or so. I hadn't expected it to be but it turned out that way and I don't want to get rid of anything because it's important for the development of the story to me. Anyway, I really wanted to thank those who have reviewed and everything, I really appreciate it, it gives me a lot of motivation to write more and more so thank you and I hope you enjoy this chapter:

* * *

**Chapter 2: Spectrum **

"_Do you see the world in different colors? Do you see the world in black and gray? Alone in your thoughts how many others have stood where you stand, where you stand today? I've stood where you stand but oh, can you wait for me now? Take off this crown to break all that defiles. Don't you know?"_

-Wait For Me (**Rise Against**-Endgame)

May 16th 1999 Sunday

They were all memories, my dreams. Like a film only the voices were gentle echoes in a far off background, fading and growing louder with certain words. The scenery was brighter like each of them was captured in a sunset radiance. They were scrambled as if the time they belonged to didn't matter and far too often they mixed in with other memories, distorted or so perfectly blended that it was puzzling when I woke.

I did not think that my life was so full until I dreamed of my own memories and so little did I dream of the darkness in my life, the times in which, not so long ago though it feels like it, I dwelled on for a great deal of time; for far too long. I knew I had been the sort of man to root myself to regret and resentment and that coldness, that grief, and I festered in it, rotted away in the shadow of lament.

But not in these dreams because these dreams held the sun; were the moments that I could stare actually and thoroughly at and not think I was someone I didn't want to be. It made me realize just how much I had forgotten, as if these memories were buried in the sea, sunken and deserted, that there were short heartened sequences where I existed and could have made different choices that would have given me a life I could be fond of, a life that I could have treasured.

They were of Lily of course, intense like the colors of spring after the snow melts, hues so vivid no matter how many years were gone.

I knew there was nothing I could do to have that life, to experience it because I was the sort of man who had given up on such a purpose, who had those sorts of choices laid out before me, generously, abundantly, but never took hold of that impulse, that striving current because back then I was a coward, a boy who didn't know anything worth anything, who believed in ideals far less crucial to a man's existence, hungry for power, for pride, for things unworthy of reverence, of honor. I sold those valuable choices at an ugly price or more or less gave them away to someone else far more deserving.

You can say how could a young boy, like I was then, be prepared for such things, to be knowledgeable of them, to know just how significant they are, how much they counted to a man, to a human being, to life and I can tell you now how easy it is to understand that those things, loyalty, kindness, empathy, compassion, _love_, they are the only things that mean something, everything; they are what keeps a man true, a grown proof that you were here, you walked the earth, you did things, you made things happen with your own hands, you cared enough for that, you made your life mean something to someone…

That should have meant something to me all those years ago no matter how I started, no matter how depraved and neglected my childhood, no matter how many sacrifices or mistakes I made, I should have lived for such things, such worthwhile, wholesome things.

But I ignored it all, I ignored history, I moved my legs along that winding, darkened, wicked path and poisoned myself with its lies like so many men before me and that addiction was overwhelming; it overcame me so effortlessly and I was ashamed of how much I bared myself to it, how much I believed it to be true.

It was this, this evil, my convinced and hollow choices, that killed Lily and the man that loved her truly, the man I should have been.

Life wanders on and I couldn't believe that I deserved reason or purpose after all the things I did, horrible, dark things and perhaps this calm, this mindless peace, day after day, perhaps this was the hell I deserved, I could accept that, willingly, gladly, to be my end and yet the world is filled with their ghosts, the reminiscences they have left behind in the people they knew and the life they created and the dreams I have had of her, of her bright brilliance, her caring eyes that willed me to be better than I was, her soft, gentle hands that would brush through those white flowers under the shade of the park's tree, the wind as it traveled through her, caressing her long red hair, her honest bravery, her cherishing heart whose love could have never been meant for me, and these memories in dreams where I should have listened to her so closely, every word she said to me, I should have really listened…

I don't know how long I stared at the packaged fish before I realized I was lost in that empty space of dawdling thought but it was cold in my hand, the salmon, through the plastic wrap and carton. I reprimanded myself silently as I placed it in my cart, the sound of a howling three year old and his mother telling him to quiet down and telling him for the umpteenth time that he was not going to get the sweets that he so desperately desired.

I didn't want to think about how I looked in the grocers walking around with a shopping cart amongst so many muggles. It was more accommodating to me to be around muggles however in contest with the wizarding world for obvious reasons. And I did not wish to run into any familiar faces. It had been strange territory at first, to be around those that did not recognize me, that did not know who I was or what I had done but I adjusted well to it, that sort of solace that grew there and to experience it, something so common, so muggle, so…livable, I don't know how to clarify it.

Because when I am alone, when my house is engulfed in that bashful quiet of the day in the waking afternoon or slumbering night, lasting only minutes, sometimes more, I feel as if I am the only man in the world and I don't ever think, even with knowing how plants grow and make antidotes and poisons, even with knowing of all the living things, I never looked out at the world, the earth and its offerings, its stilling life, of those so simple extraordinary things, where you take time to breathe, to sit and watch the humble ways of landscapes, of rain and the summer and the light and the chilling air and here is when I feel what she had been trying to show me, to give me. Take this road, please, take this way, this path, this idea, this dream, take this future; not death, not him, not that mark, not that way.

I wonder how much she loved that solace, being a wife and a mother and nothing more and that, to her, I wonder, how enough that was, more than enough, what she fought for, what she realized so much quicker than I and perhaps it is for that reason that I loved her so much but never knew it, never knew how wonderful she was at just being so human…

And here I was looking at fruit and vegetables as the three year old with his running nose was staring at me, studying me, his shirt with some cheerful caricature on it messy with something like chocolate.

A complete turn from how my life used to be, I know but this was what freedom was, non-life threatening, no dank, depressing dungeons, a silent home, muggle shirts and trousers, cupboards and a fridge that needed stocking, a sale on spices and a woman handing out free samples of cheese…

As I walked home with my brown paper bags in tow I paid no mind to the sounds of cars or neighbors shouting at one another. It had been two weeks exactly since Potter visited me and I couldn't help but wonder why hadn't he been with people on that particular day, an anniversary, why hadn't others boasted invitations to memorial gatherings or a crowded dinner table; why hadn't he been kept, shielded in a circle of friends, of family but instead he had come to me and my drab street with its broken sidewalk and blandness and poverty. What had made him do such a thing? What sort of brash thinking had that been? What had he been thinking to put such an impulse inside of him? I hadn't a clue but it was done, Potter had left to whatever summons he received that day, most likely so many he did not have the time to manage them and I hadn't the attention to ask.

It didn't matter; it was no use pondering over it, thinking of Potter and wondering if he really was reading the book and wondering, just wondering how life was turning out for him and I could not stop the wondering.

But I didn't have a want to see him again, I could not deal with the awkwardness or of Potter's shivering and anxious disposition or what it had taken him to look me in the eyes that day, it wasn't going to happen and I felt some relief that I was once again left alone.

And of course, in opposition to my expectations, when I turned the corner to walk down my street Potter himself was standing yet again on the cracked sidewalk. Before I could hide in any way, avoid him in any way, he spotted me quite immediately much to my distress.

I did not know what to think at the sight of him hurrying up the long street, his expression feigning reprieve and surprise, the breaking sun through the disgruntled gray clouds catching everywhere over his clothes, that jacket again, a dark blue cotton shirt underneath, faded jeans and those odd shoes and the brisk cold wind had made his cheeks colored with red. I did not want to think.

But he was here and there was no reason for him to be here.

"Professor Snape," Potter breathed as he stopped before me and I did not know how long I was stationary when I should have continued to walk. "I guessed that you'd gone out—"

"Potter," the name came out dismally.

"Uh—"

"It's quite a narrow sidewalk," I responded, looking down at the boy passed a plastic bag of onions.

"Oh, sorry!" Potter said quickly. "I can help you carry those."

"That's not necess—" Before I could give him my refusal Potter's hands were already reaching and he took hold of the heaviest bag and despite the minute amount of concern I had for my carton of eggs on top Potter's hold proved to be capable of the weight and so suddenly was I following his short strides up the street, staring at his shoulders and windswept hair and feeling that impatience once more, feeling that awkwardness that was this boy in my presence and there was pressure on my chest; perhaps I had gone too long without company.

Potter waited at my side, eyes watching as my key slipped into the lock and I turned it, nudging the door open with my side and the entry hall filled with the noise of rustling grocery bags and Potter's prompt footsteps and the door closing behind me and it was déjà vu though there wasn't much sunlight hitting the glass and Potter's expression was focused on me, his body leaning back slightly for the weight of the food.

I don't know what I felt right then, embarrassment perhaps because I was more aware now, not so taken off guard this time, aware that he knew things about me that I only gave him because I thought I was a dead man in that creaky, haunting shack, that he was really staring at me instead of my nose or ear, that he was carrying my groceries, that he had held my hand that night and I held back merely because I had never seen someone look so broken…

And Potter reached the kitchen and I came in after him as he was setting the bag down on the tiled countertop nearest the sink.

"I like your kitchen," Potter remarked as he was looking at me, his hands still holding the bag upright.

"It's a bit small…" I responded tonelessly and set the rest of the bags down on the table.

"You didn't want to Apparate?" Potter asked almost quietly and his hands came away.

"It's not a far walk," I answered.

And we were staring at each other in this white, tiny kitchen and I thought of how much Potter didn't look right in it and I thought how odd it was to think that but everything was odd and I couldn't stop remembering his face on that night as if this was the first time I actually allowed myself to think about it.

Why did you cry for me? Why did me dying effect you so? Did you feel sorry for me? Did you really, Potter?

Potter's eyes broke away from my gaze as the bag behind him was tipping over and he had turned around to support it again.

I didn't sigh but I wanted to and began to put things away. Potter stayed still in the corner, watching me, uncertain of what else to do as I was setting down the items on the table. When the paper bags were empty I opened the fridge, my back to Potter but I could still see him in the corner of my vision, his head turning as he seemed to be taking in my standard, colorless kitchen although there was a dark red bowl set under the window that was meant for fruit.

I moved over to the bag by Potter who hurried out of my way, being mindful of the small space, and stood now by the table as I focused on the rest of the groceries, trying to ignore the silence and the fact that the boy was surveying my every move. It was highly bizarre walking around the bantam area of the kitchen while Potter remained soundless, unmoving, staring, his eyes, darkened for the overcast weather and hazy light that made its way through the white curtains, following me as I gathered the brown paper bags and wanted to cringe as I crumpled them up because the sound of it seemed much too loud, atrocious between us and this rigorous discomfort that was building up.

I put the crumpled bags in the white bin and now there was nothing left to do but face Potter and whatever dubious reason he had for visiting me again.

"So…" I began because he was just _looking_ at me like I was supposed to have something in mind to say and I forced myself not to think of chastising thoughts that Potter was starting to bother me, being that nuisance once more when all I wanted was to cook myself lunch (which was the only plan I had before he showed up) and sit peacefully at my table in this detachment that I spent a year perfecting…

"Am I bothering you?" Potter abruptly asked, his expression already contrite and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

_Of course you are_, the words sauntered through my mind, _but you already knew you would be so why are you asking me? _

"You're probably busy," he went on as if in amazement that he was actually here in my kitchen. "I should have…sent you a letter or something…I've sort of just barged in on you, haven't I?"

And I noticed it and I didn't know why it took me so long to notice it, the bruise situated just above Potter's left eye, round, the discoloration dark so it was a fairly new injury and the words I wanted to say were swept away by the sight, the swift words I had at the ready to dismiss him from my home, a lie that I needed to be somewhere important because there was no where I needed to be and there was no where Potter wanted to be and how I knew that was disconcerting, bewildering my senses, my thought process as I took in Potter's expression: waiting, reluctant, his body so timid it seemed painful and what was I to do? What did this mean to Potter with his unannounced visits and tongue-tied speech and why couldn't I be ignorant to it? Why couldn't I just believe there were plenty of people besides me that he could visit, that I wasn't just some strange project of his or a charity case? That he knew how much of a recluse I was, that someone had let him know about the way I lived and just felt sorry for me? Was it pity?

Could I get angry about that? I didn't know because I couldn't find pity in those bright green eyes, no, all I could find was that expression again, that look that just wanted a way out…

I didn't want to know anything about him.

"I was going to make lunch," I let the words free, weightless and casual.

"It is lunch time, isn't it? I'm sorry…" Potter let out and whatever dilemma was running rampant in that head of his so I put it at rest:

"Are you hungry?"

Potter seemed stunned at the simple question, color rising in his face, hands brushing against the chair behind him, shoulders rising.

"Yeah…I mean I haven't eaten yet…" the boy managed, glancing at the window fast before his eyes rested upon me again.

"It will be a short while, you can have a seat," I responded as I walked over to the refrigerator.

"I can help if you want," Potter offered.

"No," I replied directly and after a second added: "thank you."

Potter took a seat at the table and I started on what had become "our" lunch. I did not hurry things with magic, I don't know why but it felt easier without it. I got out the ingredients; the salmon and baby potatoes and various things, disregarding Potter's company as I took out the utensils and a frying pan that I would need, grabbing a glass baking dish for the potatoes and setting it on the counter before turning on the oven and opening the kitchen window, parting the curtains so the natural light could encase the room.

As the cut salmon portions were in a bowl and I was at the sink washing the potatoes Potter spoke up once more:

"You know the book…" he voiced just loud enough so I could hear over the running water.

I waited out the pause that followed, the sleeves of my dress shirt rolled up as I cleaned a potato, concentrating much more than I needed to, straining my ears even though I thought it was ridiculous to do so.

"I've only read the first couple chapters…but its…well written…" Potter went on, his voice soft and I wasn't used to it being that way and before I could prevent the movement I turned my head to glance at him, sitting in the chair that was always vacant across from me, hands folded on the pale polished wood, eyes staring down diffidently at them, the toes of his shoes touching the floor.

A mild breeze came in, chilly, smelling of the weary earth outside and the neighbor's cooking and the faint noise of children running through the back alley waved by, their eager stomping feet and carefree shouts echoing.

"I had to look up some of the terms because I was a bit clueless about the time its set it," he continued almost cautiously, "and I've never been to Bristol…have you?"

"A few times," I answered as I placed the baby potatoes in the glass dish not actually thinking about when I had been to Bristol in my life.

I continued to prepare our meal in a trance-like way as Potter waited in that reluctant silence and very soon the aroma of the pan seared salmon and baking potatoes overwhelmed the kitchen and I focused all of my attention on the noise of it and the cooking utensils I used and the spices and lemon juice and the scent but it seemed that nothing could outdo Potter's implicit conduct at my small dining table.

I wasn't used to this behavior between us, this mutual agreement to one another as we occupied this space, feet away from each other, Potter staring at his hands, my eyes drifting up to take a glimpse of him and back down to the glass bowl of leafy greens and cherry tomatoes and I had to wonder what sort of dressing to use as if it were a crucial decision to make because I did not have any idea of what Potter would prefer and what did it matter? It was my home, I could choose the dressing and Potter could take it or leave it and here I began to argue with my thoughts, a certain anxiety taking over me, a decision I wanted to make quickly if Potter really was a guest or someone who I had been coerced into inviting to have lunch, compelled by the boy's shaky manner, did I pity him, should I just set out all the salad dressings I owned and he could pick whatever he liked best?

"I didn't know you cooked…" Potter's soft words emitted themselves, reaching my ears much too slowly.

I lifted my head to meet his careful stare, that green so blemished with sunlight, sleep deprived eyes diving down to study his fiddling hands, a thumb brushing against his palm continuously, strenuously.

"I mean…you seem quite good at it…" he finished and I noticed the trembling in his shoulders.

I didn't know how to be cold to him at all, that expertise of such a crass characteristic gone from my behavior. Who was I now but this free man with his mindless peace and drifting tedious time? How did I become like this? I wasn't meant to do anything, it was done and now…now what?

Potter was here and I did not know who we were and yet I lingered amongst the emptiness in the time it took for him to say something again as if I could not speak unless he did and I didn't know why. I waited tirelessly for it...

"How are you?"

The tentative words came as I served our lunch on white plates, topping the pan seared salmon with a few sprigs of thyme.

I set the salad bowl aside and tried not to think as I answered:

"I'm…well."

"…Good…" Potter said lightly.

I poured iced tea into two tall glass cups and placed the pitcher back into the fridge. In the next minute I was setting our plates down and our drinks and silverware along with napkins, avoiding Potter's stare as the boy sat up straighter in his seat. I went back to the fridge and grabbed up two bottles of Italian and vinaigrette dressing and put them in the middle of the table.

I sat down finally and looked over Potter as he examined his meal considerately. It was very strange to sit across from him, to sit this close to him, our knees only inches away, the afternoon dwindling, the overcast daylight growing brighter as the clouds were sweeping by the sun, the shadows changing around us, the food hot on our plates and I could do nothing but stare at the sugar dispenser and try not to feel drowned by the quiet somewhat disrupted by the rustling of leaves from the neighbor's garden and the ring of a bicycle bell and the ticking of the wall clock.

There was nothing for us to do but eat and I took a silent deep breath and picked up my knife and fork and I let my thoughts wander to my dreams again and I did not know what she would think of me and the task I had tried to fulfill of protecting her son and it was fulfilled, the job was done, wasn't it? There was nothing to be expected of me, Potter was safe, the Dark Lord would never return. But we were here together suddenly, having lunch and I could hear Potter on that night again, his stuttering breaths rising, loud and then so very far away to me, the blurring dimness fading in and out, the sharp taste of blood, his cold hand pressured against my neck and the waning pain, the rotted wood creaking and the beads of light in those sad eyes, his despairing face and dropping tears and they were warm, they were warm on my wrist…

"Oh my god."

The quick phrase that Potter voiced almost made me jump and I looked up swiftly to see the boy staring down at his plate, his silverware in hand and a bite missing from the salmon already.

"What? What's wrong with it?" I questioned hastily.

"No, it's—it's delicious," Potter expressed as he was staring at me now and he was smiling.

I gave him a quizzical look and ate a small portion of the fish to sample the taste.

"It's adequate…" I responded as Potter was already cutting himself another piece.

"It _tastes_ amazing," he said with enthusiasm and took the second bite, his expression conveying his satisfaction of the flavor and all I could do was watch Potter eat with that relish because I did not know how to reply to the boy's praise over the meal that hadn't taken too long to make.

I ate slowly as Potter ate, well, like he had been famished and I listened to the difference in the sounds of our forks and knives upon our plates and watched the smiles Potter made throughout and the color in his cheeks making him look less exhausted and what his encouraged demeanor brought on by what he deemed a good meal did to the atmosphere around us, what it did to me as if I needed to breathe more than I was, as if it made me lightheaded and unable to focus on the flavor myself, my hands working carefully to cut the potatoes and fish neatly, to not drizzle too much of the dressing over the salad and I felt that pressure upon my chest.

"Really, I haven't had anything like it before," Potter complimented and I glanced over at his plate and found that he was finished while my meal was only halfway eaten and I tried not to look surprised.

"Sorry but…it was really good," he said and his upper lip brushed over his bottom one. "Did you learn somewhere?"

"No," I answered after a brief pause.

"It was brilliant," Potter said. "I don't really have the patience to cook, even with spells, I'm rubbish at it." Potter gave me another smile, it was modest, hesitant and my fork and knife were in my hands that rested at the sides of the plate and I had to think of what else did he want to ask me, what were all of his questions that were meant for me?

"You don't cook for yourself?" I said.

Potter shook his head while responding:

"Ah, no, I just go out most days or make something that doesn't need instructions…" Potter's hands were on his knees, hidden from my view and he was looking down at his empty plate.

I waited as Potter glanced up at me.

"Would you like another helping?" the words sounded a lot stranger outside of my head but it was the polite thing to do and I had to wonder if Potter really did live alone.

"Uh…sure," Potter said.

I stood and reached over, picking up his plate and walked to the stove to serve Potter his second helping and I tried not to think of the questions that coaxed my attention and I didn't know if either of us actually accepted who we were sitting across from, if Potter was paying any mind to all of the things I had done, that reality, of the memories he had of me, those degrading memories.

We could have been strangers here.

Potter seemed pleased to have the chance to eat more of the dish and I took my time to continue to eat mine and I stared at him as if he were some form of distraction while I had my meal instead of the _Prophet _or _Witch Weekly_ or a thick novel or a Potions thesis and I stared at him, at his shoulders, at his arms, that movement, and at his clothes, the leather material of the jacket, the shade of blue of his shirt, his thin wrists, his hands, his neck, the motion of his jaw, the bruise above his eye…

And I knew this, this was company, the opposite of isolation, this was a guest, a visitor, socialization, a presence, human and alive and breathing and speaking, complementing your kitchen and your cooking and asking you how are things, I don't know you, but how are things, truly, and there was nothing to hide from here, no deceit, no war, no danger, just the afternoon, a chilled wind, a small room, chairs, ice melting in your tea, a nice lunch, a hungry boy, clouds blocking the sun, that light going in and out, sounds of memories crisscrossing like gathered birds in flight, memories of a boy you thought shouldn't have had to do all the things that he had done and of the man you were once, scared and cruel and ugly and sinful…

"I haven't really read too many novels," Potter said after he had wiped at his mouth with the clothed napkin. "So I don't have anything to compare the story to but I think its good so far…The butler is funny…"

"It has been a long time since I've read it," I said quietly.

Potter glanced over my settled expression.

"I don't recall the beginning that well," I added.

"I like that it doesn't have a synopsis…" Potter commented. "You really have no idea of what the story is about…you just have to start reading…"

"It never had a dust jacket," I said. "It was in this house…" and I paused for a short second because it was one of those points I did not wish to cross with Potter but there was no way to reconsider it, there was no way to take the words back, "…before I was born."

"Oh…" Potter replied. "I wonder what it looked like…"

"I had forgotten about it until you found it," I said softly. "Those books have been in those boxes for a good twenty years…"

"There was a lot of dust…" Potter said as his eyes were focused on his folded hands once more.

And there was that cumbersome quiet again that followed and Potter focused on drinking his iced tea and I stood taking both of our plates up and brought them to the sink.

"I could help with the dishes," Potter offered quickly.

"There's a spell for that," I said simply, taking out my wand, forgetting about my earlier judgment, and with a flick the piled dishes in the sink began their washing and I put away the spices and realized that our lunch was over and I wondered what to do. When I turned around Potter was no longer seated but standing before the sliding glass door, staring out at the garden.

I walked over to him, keeping about two feet between us and I did not know how long it would be like this, moving along this way, just guessing how we were spending our lives. Potter was a young man and yet we both had quite a long time on this earth to waste…

"Your garden…" Potter began, his expression somewhat perplexed, "it isn't really a garden…"

He turned to look at me and the glare over that green was forceful.

I wanted to smirk at that remark.

"There were more important things that I had to tend to, Potter," I said.

"It's been a year, Professor," Potter responded almost as if he were reprimanding me.

"I have told you before, I'm not your professor," I replied directly.

Potter returned his gaze back to the dead garden.

"Sorry Sir, I guess it's a habit…" he said, his voice lower. "Will you go back to teaching?"

I still didn't know why he was here and I did not want to make an assumption because I didn't mind this civility between us, at least for today, at least for that sound of easy dialogue after so long of hearing my own thoughts alone and I kept telling myself I had nothing else to do and I kept wondering if Potter did.

"I'm not concerned with that decision at the moment…but I do not plan to return in the fall," I answered.

"You know…I'm good at gardening," Potter said after a moment of silence and I stared at Potter's reflection in the clear window as his eyes continued to take in the withered earth. "I could fix it up…if you wanted, Sir…"

And with that I did smirk because the thought of it, of Potter out there in this old yard gardening, it was somehow humorous to me, I didn't understand why, perhaps it was because we really were strangers now, honestly, we were and I had to question if we both knew it, if Potter thought it too, if he would have preferred it that way instead of knowing the truth…

"No, Mr. Potter, my garden is fine the way it is," I said and watched his expression become repentant as if he felt sorry for the lifeless yard.

"You have a bruise," I said at last because I could not disregard it any longer.

"I do?" Potter asked, looking up at me.

"You haven't noticed it?" I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

Potter squinted at his reflection in the glass door.

"Oh…It looks bad, doesn't it?" Potter said.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"I guess…" Potter replied as if it were a question. "I didn't think it was that bad…We took someone into custody yesterday, it was a ricocheted spell…I forget to see the Healers sometimes when it's busy…"

"I see…" I replied.

"I should go…I'm probably keeping you from something, aren't I?" Potter said gently as he stepped away from the window. "Thank you for lunch, it really was brilliant."

"Why did you come here again, Mr. Potter?" I said because I did not know what else to say.

And Potter looked up at me, those eyes nervous once again, searching for things he would not find.

"I just…" Potter began, his gaze meeting my dress shoes.

What was I to think now? What was the answer? Was it charity? Pity? Did Potter feel guilty? Did he feel like he owed me something? A debt? And all of these presumptions began to anger me.

"I wanted to…" he said, staring up at me as I had been trying not to scowl.

"Is it annoying you?" Potter questioned in a hushed tone.

And we were breaching that truth, that reality of our true identities that we had somehow managed to mask however, for me, I did not know how to be that man; cynical, vindictive and Potter, I really didn't know who he was trying to be.

"Not yet," I said.

Potter let out a breathy noise, scarcely a laugh but there was amusement in his features.

I walked him to the door.

"Wait here," I said before Potter's hand could reach for the handle.

With quick strides I went upstairs and returned with a small blue vial and I handed it out to the boy.

"For the bruise," I said plainly.

"Oh…thanks," Potter said and took it carefully from my hold with his left hand.

He hesitated, his right hand on the door, his eyes lifting from the floor to meet my adamant gaze.

"Is it a love story, Sir?" Potter asked ingenuously.

I did not blink; I continued to stare down at him, at the shadows under his eyes and his tousled hair, taking a ridiculous note of how his jacket's sleeves went down to his knuckles and trying not to think of why Potter would ever want to see me.

"Read on, Mr. Potter," I answered.

After a moment Potter only nodded once.

"Have a good evening, Sir," he said and he opened the door and stepped out into the rest of the world.

* * *

May 29th 1999 Saturday

I didn't want to read the interview because I never read the interviews but I could not ignore the front cover of the newest issue of _Witch Weekly_, the picture of Potter shaking hands with some famous Quidditch player from Australia and at the bottom of it stating what page the Q & A was on and I could not help but think why? Why was it necessary? Was it just for better publicity? Of course it was but I couldn't stop asking myself what had Potter felt like during the interview? Why had he agreed to it? Was his smile forced?

It was Saturday and the clock on the wall had just struck noon and I was sitting at the kitchen table with a half empty cup of tea.

I still dreamed although they were shorter and less frequent and I could not remember them very well when I woke; they were distorted, washed out, dull. Nothing had changed; my daily routine was as customary as ever. I suppose you would think that bored was my habitual state of being and you might be right but that's fine, I've accepted it, it was my life now and I had to admit I did not feel like doing much else, not teaching adolescents the art of Potion making and waiting for the disastrous results that would follow nor attending seminars for those who held their Mastery rank in the subject, it didn't matter to me, I liked being home, staying home, this was my home…

Before I could open the magazine the sound of someone knocking at my front door filled the house, strike after strike of the handle, five times and I waited, I had to wait as I sat there, my eyes focused on the cold tea in the black china cup, the seconds flitted along with the beats of my heart, that deep silence buzzing in my ears, my forearms leaning on the wood edge of the table, tired of the position.

And the knocking came once more and I stood on the third hammer of that metal ring and moved swiftly to the entryway and I could see his form altered and smudged by the diamond patterns in the glass of the door, nothing clear but I knew it was him by the colors of his clothes and I did not think of how odd that was.

I opened the door and there was Potter, hair a bit neater this day, eyes still expressing many sleepless nights and he wore a brown cotton jacket over a dark blue and white plaid button up, jeans and the same type of shoe though they were black this time.

"Hello, Sir," Potter greeted and he sounded somewhat breathless, his hands in his pockets.

I stepped aside and Potter walked in, passing me by with quick steps.

"Were you busy with something?" Potter asked and his hands came out of his jacket pockets and I could see the clean white bandage wrapped around his right hand, just over the upper palm and above the knuckles but there were no bruises on his face.

"No…I was going to make lunch," I answered in a monotone voice and I didn't know if I should bother asking Potter again why he was here or why his visits were so spaced apart though the timing of it wasn't peculiar even though these visits were and I did not have a reason to mind it, it didn't need a purpose just like I didn't deserve one, the purpose for me still being here and breathing and alive and if Potter wanted to visit me then so be it; it did not matter if I felt exhausted at the end of it or that I felt I needed a stiff drink.

And what would it mean for me if I could not put up with him? With a few awkward visits now and again? I wasn't afraid of that company. We were free to do what we wanted.

"Oh…I didn't realize the time," Potter said and I knew he was lying but it didn't mean anything to me.

"Did you eat yet?" I asked, brushing by him and taking in the scent of the gloomy day that was latched on to him and the smell of oranges.

"Uh…no, not yet," Potter said behind me and I heard his footsteps following.

It was only a few minutes before Potter was sitting at the table, waiting, and I was making us French bread sandwiches, topping the meat with lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions and the bacon I had just cooked, the aroma of it thick in the air, the greased pan joining my tea cup in the sink, the curtains open, there was fruit in the red bowl, the plates were at the ready beside the bamboo cutting board and my eyes stared intently at the shined knife as I sliced the block of Swiss cheese into thin cuts though my gaze was drawn to the bandage on Potter's hand, the crisp white of the gauze.

The questions were with me again, persuading and lingering, questions that should remain unvoiced.

I cut the sub sandwiches into two slices on our plates and served them along with cups of iced tea and I wasn't surprised at how promptly Potter began to eat. Potter had always been thin, treated quite poorly by the his muggle relatives, malnourished and perhaps now I could determine the boy's skinniness was due to genetics, I did not want to think that Potter just forgot to eat.

I watched him eat like before, wondering if it would be a waste to buy a little extra food come my next shopping day, wondering if Potter would visit again two weeks from now, if this was the pattern, if their needed to be a pattern, if I wanted this pattern and I didn't want to think anymore and I didn't know why Potter's relished expressions made me feel some form of adulation. It was a foolish reaction but what else was I to feel when Potter flattered the taste of the sandwich, saying things like "I could never make anything like this," or "It's like what you get in posh restaurants," yes, it was all very embellished but when had Potter ever said good things about me? Only in that courtroom however many months ago, that hearing that he had demanded to speak at, to provide every piece of evidence, for the righteous speech he had made about how brave I had been in front of so many people…

We were strangers; I kept repeating it, a tantalizing mantra flouncing through every corner of my mind. It could be like this for months, Potter and I, it wasn't anything. I could make him lunch, I could watch him eat, I could wonder about his life and never know anything, he could look at me with that expression I had seen in the snow and the shadow and the forest of bare trees and did I have faith then? On that night where I placed the sword of Gryffindor in the lake? Did I have faith in this boy who I believed should never have had to do anything for us, should have just lived a simple, innocent life, the sort of life I had wanted but never thought it possible?

_How are you?_

I couldn't ask it.

_How are you?_

There was no point to it. I didn't hate him but I didn't like him either.

_How are you?_

It was not my place and I did not want it to be my place.

_Mr. Potter, how are you?_

He was nothing to me.

_What kind of life do you want to live?_

He wasn't like me. He just felt guilty, that was all.

_How do you see the world?_

It was none of my business.

_ What road will you take? _

I didn't know anything.

"You shouldn't eat so fast," I voiced softly when Potter was finished with the meal and I had barely eaten one of the halves.

And that breathy short laugh was his response a long with:

"It was really good…"

I placed my second half upon his plate.

"Ah…Are you sure?" Potter said, looking abashed.

"It's fine, I'm not that hungry," I replied.

Potter took some time to pace himself as he enjoyed the extra portion and I drank a bit of iced tea and listened to the faint tunes that migrated from the next door neighbor's home, classical music, it was a regular thing to hear on Saturdays from the mother next door and quite often did she sing out loud though she wasn't very good…

"How far have you gotten?" I asked quietly when Potter's eyes met my calm gaze.

"With the book?" Potter responded.

I nodded once.

"I'm only on chapter six," Potter said. "I like Helen though, she's young but she's really witty and independent…and Paul, how he works for the jeweler…I've never seen a jeweler work before…"

I thought about the story but only in the back of my mind, recalling certain parts of it that I definitely could not remember with much detail. I wasn't sure how to answer him and I was not interested in the way jewelry was made though I could understand how it could interest Potter since he seemed quite fond of the book. However, I was beginning to question how busy Potter actually was since it had been a month since I lent it to him and I did not believe he was a slow reader despite his exam scores throughout the years in my class.

Potter sat there, eyes that harlequin green once again, staring out the glass door with kind consideration at the garden that wasn't a garden.

"Did it happen during work?" I asked as I stood up to take our plates.

"What?" Potter voiced softly.

"Your injury," I answered when I was before the sink, setting the plates down.

"Oh…no," he said as he examined the wrapped hand.

"What happened?" I said offhandedly as I gathered up the knife and cutting board and Potter's stare followed me to the sink.

"I fell," Potter said. "This morning…I fell and cut my hand…"

"Would you like me to heal it for you?" I offered lightly as I picked up a clean sponge.

"It really is a shame…your garden," Potter said.

I hadn't noticed that he had stood up and moved over to the glass door. And then he was opening the sliding door and stepping outside into the dead yard and all I could do was watch him as the dishes began to wash themselves with a nonverbal spell.

I watched him walk around, staring up at the bare tree and the desolate soil in the flower beds, the naked hedges, the weeds and I did not know what to do when he knelt down upon the dusted earth and began to pull at those sturdy weeds, his features in a certain strict concentration that I had never really seen on Potter's face or noticed.

Potter fought with those stubborn weeds for an hour, his face growing flushed, his hands dirty, the white bandage torn and smeared with earth. I could not stop him only because he looked so determined to get the task done and by the end of the hour half of the garden was weeded and Potter was standing, stretching his back and then walking over to the glass door. He patted at his shoes before stepping back inside.

"I wanted to do something…because you made me lunch," Potter said, his cheeks reddened. "I hope you didn't mind…"

I glanced over him, at the dirt that caked onto the knees of his jeans.

"Do what you want with it," I said simply. "Wash your hands and I will heal that cut for you."

Potter nodded and headed over to the clean kitchen sink where he used the dish soap to scrub away the dirt on his hands and when he removed the soiled bandage I saw the gash sliced across his palm and the few drops of blood that drained with the sudsy water.

And I heard it once more, Potter's hitched sobs and the breaths that he could only swallow and I had known his fear and I had known the beseeching look in those vivid eyes. What did I know then about you? What do I know now?

Potter raised his hand up to me and I raised my left to hold it steady for his fingers were quaking. I looked over the wound and the color of that blood. It wasn't too deep but it did look painful.

With a circled wave of my wand the wound sealed itself and all that was left was a bright pink line that would disappear within a few hours. Potter brought his hand away slowly, looking over his palm.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I should go…Thank you for lunch, Sir…"

And I could have asked him here if he would be stopping by any time soon, I could have asked him what he knew about gardening and where he lived now and what he did at night while I myself drank and read and wrote anonymous letters because I could and listened to the night's tranquil performance, the crickets, the river, the neighbor's telly when the volume was far too high, the couple to the right next door who were fond of arguing with each other for a good half hour and then apologizing after with a bout of rigorous sex.

But I didn't ask him those things or mention the neighbors. I only walked him to the door and he said his farewell and I closed the door and stood there thinking about what this was, what was underneath it all and how his hand looked small in mine.

* * *

June 1st 1999 Tuesday

It was a strange dream. The sunlight was blinding and I stood upon the parched, cracked earth and there was no wind and the horizon moved like waves in the broad distance and the sky was a pale blue, empty and I felt a thirst in my throat, my lips dry, my skin hot, my neck burning, my heart squelched but I was not alone because he was with me, on his hands and knees, in the dirt, hands brushing through the dusted soil and his bare arms were bleeding because they were wrapped in brambles, the thorns piercing his skin, the tiny beads of blood dripping onto the scorched earth…

I woke to the harsh sounds of metal thudding against my front door and I breathed in the cold atmosphere of my bedroom. It took a short moment before my awareness was able to reach through the confusion brought on from the dream that had felt all too real.

I had dreamed of him, of Potter.

It was early, eight in the morning and I did not want to think that Potter was at my door only a couple days after his last visit.

I brought the blankets away, hissing slightly as the icy air met my bare chest and stood, my back feeling stiff. I walked to the window and parted the curtains just enough to look down at my doorstep and to my bafflement it was Potter who was at my door.

I hesitated only because I wasn't fully awake but still I had to move, I had to answer the door. I grabbed up my dark green dress shirt that hung over the desk chair and slung it on while picking up my robe from the coat rack by the door, pushing my feet in my slippers. Wrapping myself in my robe I shuffled downstairs and ran a hand through my hair, blinking away the blurriness. Potter was knocking again and I opened the door, squinting at the morning sun as he was standing before me, looking quite cheerful, a small faded black duffle bag of sorts slung over his right shoulder.

"Good morning, Sir," Potter greeted.

"What brings you to Cokeworth this early in the day, Mr. Potter?" I said, my voice slightly hoarse.

"Gardening," Potter said and smiled up at me.

I looked over his attire, his old faded jeans and blue hooded jumper and white worn running trainers.

"What's in the bag?" I asked jadedly.

"Tools," Potter answered, "for gardening."

I looked him over once more, at how his eyes looked like he had slept a bit at least.

"You said I could do what I wanted with it," Potter added with a worried tone.

"I did say that…" I said and held back a yawn with great effort. "Well…come in then."

I walked down the hall and heard Potter shut the door. I left Potter to his own devices as I headed back upstairs to the lavatory to use its facilities. I washed my face, the cold water waking me more so than Potter's insistent knocking and I brushed my teeth and paid no mind to the extra waves in my hair. I tied my robe as I walked down to the kitchen where I found Potter out in the small garden already tending to it with his tools and I had to shake my head as I started the kettle on the stove.

What did I think of him? That question was constant in my mind since these visits began and I did not have any kind of answer. What sort of importance was it to me to get to know him? It wasn't intentional, I was just taking in what was presented before me with Potter's actions because he was here, on his own; coming here was his own decision.

So what if I opened the door?

I stood there with my mug of tea staring out at the garden and Potter who had returned to weeding the rest of it. I studied him, how Potter worked energetically out in the sun, how he pulled at those weeds so willful to be in the ground, on his knees, his shoulders tense, using what power his skinny body had, in those thin arms, his jaw clenched with that fortitude, eyes so focused, muttering things as if encouraging the earth to work with him because he was trying to salvage it.

And how long had it been like this, my garden overgrown with bramble and weeds and weary soil and nothing green? Since I was born, I knew this and I knew there was green in the garden now, resolute and obstinate, Potter's eyes that wanted to see things grow.

He was at it for a long while as I sat at the table with the _Daily Prophet _in hand and listened to Potter's breathing hasten as he labored over the yard. I heard his grunts and a few breathy swears as his struggle carried on and I could do nothing but let it happen, what was the harm in it?

What was Potter thinking?

When it was nine I stood up, unable to preoccupy myself with the newspaper any longer and I went back to staring at Potter again. He was wearing gloves and he was digging now, breaking up the hard dry earth in the right back corner. I looked over the few black rubbish bags that Potter had disposed the weeds in and whatever else. His face was flushed but he seemed content with his progress.

I opened the sliding door.

"Are you hungry?" I called to him.

Potter turned his head from where he sat in the dirt on his knees. He nodded.

"How do you like your eggs?" I asked.

"Any way is fine," Potter answered.

"Alright then," I muttered as I went back into the kitchen.

I opened the window and parted the curtains and started on a breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, mushrooms, tomatoes and toast. I took my time cooking because Potter was so engrossed in his gardening. I didn't think about the dream or why Potter cared about my garden.

When breakfast was served and the dishes were stacked in the sink I went outside to call for him and was surprised that he was nowhere in sight.

"Sir," Potter's voice came from above me and I looked up to find the boy sitting high in the bare tree.

"Potter," I said with discrepancy, my eyes narrowing at just how high up he was, seated on the thickest branch. "What are you doing? Get down from there; I will not have you breaking your neck on my property."

"You sound like the butler," Potter remarked, his eyebrows rising.

I gave him a questioning look.

"From the story…Helen likes to climb trees all the time and the butler always finds her."

"Yes well, those are healthy trees, this one is dead," I said, glaring at him.

"It isn't though," Potter said, looking around at the stretching branches.

"That's outstanding, now get _down_ Potter, your breakfast is waiting," I said irritably.

"Alright," Potter said and I watched him lower himself onto the thinner branch below and the scrawny one under that and before I could protest Potter had jumped down the rest of the way landing on his feet before me with a thump and he lost his balance and I caught him by the wrists.

Potter's eyes looked up and I felt his weight leaning into my hands and I didn't know what to feel about this closeness, this sort of contact between the two of us and those green eyes, enthralled by the sunlight, were so near and I saw that forest again, the pure white snow, the frozen lake, my doe patronus shining a crystal blue and I had looked back to make sure he was following and I wanted to know how he felt about it, about the aid I had given him because he knew the truth, he knew my story, he knew my secrets…

"Sorry," Potter mumbled as he straightened himself.

"Go wash up," I ordered and Potter led the way into the kitchen. I sat down as Potter washed his hands before joining me.

We ate in silence, Potter acting more like he had been during the previous visits with that reserved disposition.

"Spells would make things easier," I said quietly when Potter was just about finished with his meal.

"That'll make you lazy," Potter said lightly as he set down his glass of orange juice. "You have to do things with your hands sometimes…it's better that way."

I did not have a response for him as I sipped at my own juice.

"I have to go, I have work," Potter said and he stood. "Thank you for breakfast, Sir."

Of course, Potter, the Auror; Potter worked and I stayed home and that was it, that was time moving on…

He threw away the bags into the bins outside in the alley and gathered up his tools.

I walked him to the door very aware that I was still dressed in my sleeping pants, the shirt I wore yesterday and my robe and slippers and Potter's jumper was dirty with soil and that red hue still existed in his skin and the spectrum of the window lit us up in the entryway, bright, blinding, close and this could not feel familiar to me and I would not think of why it existed, why we were doing this because I was only here in this house, I stayed here and it was Potter's choice, not mine, it was Potter's decision and this could go on for however long Potter felt it needed to. He didn't owe me anything.

We only did what we had to do.

And I wondered, crazily, because there was nothing else and we would keep moving on, I wondered if we were the same now, if there were short days and crooked nights where he felt weird to be in his own skin, where nothing was familiar, where everything looked different to you, your home, your clothes, your hands, your eyes, and you don't know how things really are and you don't know if things make any sense but there's no changing it, you have to move, you have to be, you have to realize that there are things you can't say out loud and the kind of forgiveness that you want just doesn't exist and you don't know where to go looking for things to make you feel that sameness again…

"Have a good day, Sir," Potter said before he left me in the spectrum.

"_The promise of safe return undelivered. The ocean is wider than I first guessed. When roads disappeared I followed the rivers but somehow got in over my head; so deep I felt taken.__Wait for me now. Take off this crown to break all that defiles. Don't you know?"_

-Wait For Me (**Rise Against**-Endgame)

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A/N: And that was chapter 2, I hope you liked it, please review and tell me what you think, I really want to know :)

I have made up the details of the story Harry is reading and talking about to Snape and it does have a great impact in the story in later chapters.

I hope you look forward to the next chapter, thank you for reading.

I apologize for any errors I may have missed.

I hope everyone is well.


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